We strolled back to the house and settled into a small sitting room. With a bit of embarrassment, Angela asked if I could help her find a decent apartment downtown, a loft preferably. She wanted to be back in the SoHo mix. Melissa, fortunate girl, had already been accepted at the Bradford School on the Upper East Side.
“It’ll be hard for her to leave her friends here in Westchester, of course,” Angela conceded. “But she’s a trouper, and it’s Bradford after all. Her life will be made.”
There was an odd noise in the hallway, and then Melissa appeared, in a short sundress, carrying a large silver tray laden with teacups, a white pot, Melba toast, and three small jars of jam.
“Such a lady,” I said.
“I do try to teach her not to be a total barbarian.”
Melissa wrinkled her nose. “Mom, you’re being a prig again.”
Keeping her back very straight, the young lady set the tea service down and poured out a steaming cup.
“Serve your mother first, sweetheart.”
“No, you’re the guest.”
Angela accepted the second cup. “I think she’s got a crush on you, Jack.”
“Mom, don’t be gross.”
“All right. Help your Uncle Jack with the marmalade lid.”
Melissa made a face. “I know.”
Taking the jar from me, she freed the top with a single firm twist—one of the little things my withered left arm will not permit me to do.
“Would you like to see me ride my horse later?” she asked.
“I certainly would. But business first, Missy. I have to help your mother get famous.”
There was a measure of truth to the thought. Somebody would have to do something to save Angela from the ruinous effect of a hired flack.
But for the moment, I had other preoccupations. Once Melissa left, I pressed Angela to tell me exactly what she knew about Mandy’s death.
“Just what I’ve read in the papers, and heard through the rumor mill,” she said. “I assume she was killed by that new tart of Philip’s. The pneumatic Italian.”
“Why?”
“Who else would want Mandy dead?”
“I hate to say it, but there are other candidates. Philip, for one. You, for another.”
“Philip was in California.”
“Did you read that in the papers?”
“No, he told me he was going. I called him there on Tuesday night—at the Beverly Wilshire.”
“Why?”
“He has to co-sign the papers for Bradford.”
“When they check the phone records, the police might wonder if it was some other message you gave him. Maybe an ‘everything’s set for tomorrow.’ ”
“Oh, please. My only task last Wednesday was for the membership committee at the Katonah Museum. I chaired the annual benefit that evening, a gala attended by seven hundred people.”
“And you were here all day before the party? The cops are sure to ask.”
“They already have. Yes, I was home with Melissa. We did yoga together and made gingerbread cookies.”
“Of course the nanny can verify that?”
“And the gardener. Would you like me call them in?”
“No. I’m no sleuth. But my friend Hogan is.”
“The one who walks like a bantam rooster?”
“He’s been hired by Joel Bernstein.”
“That damn shyster. If Philip had listened to Joel when we split, I’d be homeless.”
“That’s the Bernstein we all know and loathe.”
“He screwed me out of every share of O-Tech stock, but Philip—dear man that he can be sometimes—drew the line at the house. ‘She has to have a roof over her head,’ he said. ‘She and my little Melissa.’ ”
“Quite a heart.”
Angela smiled faintly and shrugged. “With Philip, you learn to take what you can get.”
“Just make that clear to Hogan, if he comes around.”
“I don’t hide things in my life, Jack. It’s a big difference between you and me. One of the reasons we get on so well.”
Before I left, we stopped out by the barn so I could say goodbye to Melissa. Wearing jodhpurs and an English riding hat, she held the chestnut gelding in a disciplined trot. As she rose and dropped successively in the stirrups, the buds of her breasts pushed briefly against the white cotton of her shirt. She halted the big animal in front of us.
“Are you leaving already?” she asked.
“For now,” I said. “Be good. Have your mom bring you to town for a visit sometime.”
“I will, but I won’t be good. It’s too boring.”
I glanced at Angela. “Another artist in the family, I see.”
“Not if I can bloody well help it.”
Melissa adjusted the reins. “I like your car,” she said judiciously. “But it’s kind of old.”
I looked back at the silver Porsche 911, gleaming under the trees along the driveway.
“It’s vintage,” I said. “Like its owner.”
“There’s no room for kids.”
“No, that’s right.”
“Who do you play with then?”
“Oh, Uncle Jack plays lots of games,” Angela assured her daughter. “He plays the art game and the real estate game, and sometimes the girlfriend game.”
“Mostly I play with my pal Hogan.”
“What do you guys do?”
“We pretend to be grown up and solve mysteries. Hogan’s better at it than I am.”
“I’ll bet I can pretend better than either of you.”
“Maybe so, honey.” I kissed Angela’s cheek and lifted my good arm in farewell to the girl. “When you’re a little older, Missy, we’ll see.”